


Something's Wrong With It.

by cowboypda



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Character Study, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, maybe. i feel like its ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 07:38:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8047984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboypda/pseuds/cowboypda
Summary: THIS IS A WORK IN PROGRESS.Tony's never been good at dealing with grief. This is just a different way of looking at his experience with it.





	Something's Wrong With It.

**Author's Note:**

> this is not done and will probably be updated soon. i apologize for how short it is. enjoy.

There’s something wrong with it. The whole in your chest. You catch it dripping, black goo oozing from the area between the casing and the reactor. You feel it, wet and sticky and making your shirt cling to your chest. You’ll rush to the bathroom to try and get it off, to try and figure out what it is. People stare at you as you leave. You never see them, but you know they think you’re a freak. A sham. You’ll get to the restroom, tug your shirt off and stare at the arc reactor. There’s nothing there. It’s dry. You get the feeling you’re going mad and tug your shirt back on, the wet and dirty feeling immediately returning. The shirt’s dry, you know it is. You keep your hand over the light, waiting for it to happen again. It doesn’t for the next few days, maybe a week if you’re lucky. But it starts again. It always does, it always will. You’re lulled in a sense of security. You don’t have to worry about it. But it continues the cycle, starting again and dripping, leaving pools where ever you were before. You get used to it, learn to cope. The goop is easier, painless, simple to deal with.

It’s never been worse than when he dies. He’s gone and the goo never stops. It crushes you, suffocates you. You no longer try to check and clean it off. You see a picture of him, or accidentally listen to a voicemail from him from 4 years ago, one you never bothered to delete and now never will, and it gushes. The flow is strong and it takes days for it to die back down to its usual trickle. During those times it fills every room you're in. It covers you and suffocates you, leaving you gasping for air from a force that just isn't there. It never was. And he’s gone. You try to blame on him, it was his fault that he died, his fault that he went. But it wasn’t. You know this. He’d know this. He’d tell you to calm down, to stop overreacting. But he’s not.

You’re thinking of him again and flows started back up. It’s already up to your ankles and you can feel it on your shirt and in your shoes. You tell Friday to cancel all your meetings for the next few days. She does her best and you retire to your room and lock the door.


End file.
